Sometimes and Maybe
by BetweenLines55
Summary: All Arthur wanted was a quiet, well deserved day off. It's not going to happen though, if Mycroft and London's crime scene have anything to do with if. One phone call in a record shop later and Arthur may never get another day off again. T for language and sassy Arthur, chapter 2 rewritten.
1. Arthur v Mycroft

**Hey guys, I'm not dead! I know it's been a while since I posted something, but here ya go. In truth, I have literally no idea if this is going to be continued for now, it's just a one-shot ATM, but if you guys want more, you have to tell me **

Tucked away in a record store in the corner, a nook really, of East Sussex, Arthur Kirkland thought he would've been safe. It was a frayed, indie sort of place where the girls behind the counter had infinity signs tattooed on their wrists and all the men working the stock rooms in the back of the store wore their trousers too low and didn't shave for several consecutive days. There was no wallpaper, just exposed brick, some of it painted and some of it not. Pictures didn't hang on the wall, concert posters did. Instead of curtains and a solid door to the back room, there were strings of beads. Paper lanterns were strung around in awkward places, bring a warm, cozy light different to the grainy, dull sort that came about London.

It was not a place that well-dressed government types would, or more likely _should_, not know about.

But he had been wrong before. Many times. Francis liked ever so much to remind him of those occasions. He was positive that somewhere the frog had a calendar dedicated to and called as much, "England's Famous Fuck-Ups."

Despite his lengthy precaution measures. He had a feeling it wouldn't save him in the end. His favorite pair of ripped, red denims, the very tatty and _very_ beloved Deathly Hallows t-shirt and his Doc Martens would all be in vain. Stabbing his eyebrow bar back into place and dipping into his vast collection of beanies wasn't going to matter in the end.

Even regarding his pessimism, or _realism_ as Arthur preferred, nothing had come up that overly put him on edge. When he'd walked in, the pretty girl behind the counter with the electric blue bob and spider bites had only briefly given him a look from over the top of her book (feminism or something, Arthur noticed) before going back to reading.

He savored these days off, few and far between, that he spent in the back of record stores and shopping in the London boutiques and looking out over the Thames wrapped up in his RAF pilot jacket and silk scarf his dear Kiku had given him a hundred years ago. Honest to God, he loved his work, his country, his people and his sweater vests (all 17 of them). All though, he could do without all the pompous arseholes and the piles of paper work. For God's sake, he'd been off since Friday afternoon and his hand was still cramping.

Finally making it to the back of the store, Arthur got there without much damage. Only a flirty smack on the backside by a man in a v-neck. Honestly, who other than the frog wore_ v-necks_ anymore?

The back smelled like cigarettes (despite the no smoking sign on the front entrance) barely masked with incense that took him back to the days of Beatlemania shortly followed by Freddie Mercury and waiting for the hammer to fall. Deft fingers flipped through the stacks, smiling occasionally at the record jackets. At home he already had a sizable collection. Most of them brought up memories Arthur would have otherwise forgotten, buried in the back of his mind in his mental library of a thousand years or so. Damn, he needed to call up Gil and go back to traveling the bar circuit—

The tinny, sharp sound of his mobile playing "Anarchy in the UK" echoed up from his jacket pocket. There was only one man in Arthur's phone that had that ringtone and damn it all if that man was going to drag him back behind a desk.

"What the hell do ya want, Mycroft?" Arthur said, not bothering with the crusty old accent he cared to put on for all the politicians. Mycroft didn't care, as long as what he wanted was achieved in the end. A horrible person, with too large a forehead for his face, Mycroft Holmes, but a respectable one Arthur managed to put up with. (And only partially because Mycroft practically ran most of his government, the git.)

Luckily, Arthur seemed to be alone in the back. No one was watching and V-neck had thankfully disappeared. "Ah, hello to you too, Arthur. Enjoying your day off?"

"I was. 'Til you called anyways."

"Personable as ever, aren't we."

"Get to the point, wanker. I have roughly 18 hours until I'm back behind a desk and I'd like to enjoy them without you blustering into my life, thanks very much."

Static on the other end. A sigh. "Very well. Are you alone?"

Arthur snuck a peek to the front, "As good as."

"There have been several government officials found murdered, their bodies dumped in the Thames. Several government workers with Level 10 clearance."

"Shite."

Level 10 clearance meant Arthur Kirkland, lifelong Londoner, part time guitarist and full time cat owner was actually England, occasionally Britain, lifelong war veteran, part time father and full time world power.

Double shite.

"You suspect I know something about this? Because if you are, you're wrong." Arthur grumbled. He didn't know why Mycroft thought he knew everything that went on within his heart and home, within the country. Vaguely, Arthur could remember a time in which he did, when London wasn't so big and the country as a whole was less populated. Simpler times, those. Occasionally, like now, he longed for those simpler times.

"No, I wouldn't expect you to." Mycroft said. Arthur curled his lip—so he was in one of his moods today, wasn't he?

"Did you call me just to give me sass or were you actually going to tell me something, especially if _Level 10 security's been breached?_" Arthur replied in the same nasty tone of voice. He knew he was a right pain in the arse to Mycroft, but took pride in it, because damn if that insufferable man didn't need a reality check every now and then.

Another sigh on the other end of the line, "Look, Arthur. I'm calling to tell you that I've gotten permission from David Cameron and the Queen to involve my brother in this...scandal."

"Homicide."

"What?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Mycroft, I am more than a thousand years old, do _not_ coddle me. It's a homicide, call it what it is. As for your brother...the sociopath, correct?"

"_High-functioning_ sociopath, but yes...Sherlock. And his partner, Dr. John Watson."

"Partner, eh?" Arthur said, moving to cradle the phone between his ear and shoulder, feigning casualty by looking through albums as the blue haired girl from the counter shuffled passed him and disappeared into the stockroom with the tinkling sound of stringed beads. Grabbing his phone again and taking a quick look around, he slipped out the back door into the alley behind the record store.

Mycroft was speaking again, "Purely professional, at this point." Humor. Weird sound for Mycroft—it made Arthur uneasy. "So you've got money on them. All right, well, whatever. Just keep me posted. I heard Sherlock Holmes is the best in this business."

"I assure you, he is." Mycroft said, sounding final. The alley next to the record store was a tight squeeze for even someone as lean and wiry as Arthur. Barely managing to get to the front of the building, he stopped short. A black car parked on the curb.

"Hullo." Arthur said.

"Yes, I may have forgotten to mention that I was parked outside."

"I thought you didn't venture out into East Sussex...and you never forget anything, bastard."

"Yes, shame, you'll have to find a new hidey-hole. Get in the car, Arthur. We've more to talk about than one phone call can manage."

"Fuck."

The anthropomorphic personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland numbly hit the end call button and slipped the phone into his back pocket. If Mycroft was making a personal call, and Level 10 security had been breached...shit, he wasn't getting away from this one.

Arthur wordlessly opened the car door and slid in. One of those limo style cars the man loved so much. He looked as posh as ever, Mycroft, his suit expertly tailored and shoes shining even in the dim light coming in through the tinted windows. And there Arthur was, with a fucking piece of metal above his eyebrow.

"Personable as ever." Mycroft said, hint of a smile on his smug face. "Oh, belt up," Arthur growled, "Where are you bloody taking me, anyways?"

"221B Baker Street," said the man who ran most of his government, a look on his face reminding Arthur of a predator leading its prey to its doom, "and I suggest you take the lovely piece of metal out of your face before we get there."

Arthur flipped Mycroft off, then collapsed into the upholstery. He really wasn't getting another day off anytime soon, was he?

**I'm pretty sure this is insanely out of character for both Arthur and Mycroft, but in my head, Artie is a no-nonsense, witty, sarcastic guy who really likes rock music and piercings and tattoos but keeps it to himself for sake of keeping up appearances. **

**Also, the bit about Gilbert and the bar scene-again, headcannon where Gil and Arthur are total rock-music buddies. (I mean, German rock is some hard-core shit.) Gil, at least for me, is a bassist. **

**Hope you guys liked it, reviews are love and feed my lonely inbox!**

**You all wanted more, so here's a bit of a sneak peak if you will.**

_They knew a secret that had survived millennia—the Dark Ages, plague, anarchy and even the French and it would all be unraveled with three decomposing bodies bound and dumped into a river._

_Bloody fuck, it sounded like something out of a bad American action movie._


	2. Arthur v Sherlock

**Here's the update you've all been waiting for. Not too thrilled with it, but you be the judge.**

All in all, Mycroft would've had very good music taste if it was 1910. Soft Mozart, lilting and just on Arthur's frame of consciousness, was pumped through speakers into the back of the car. At this point, Arthur was very close to putting in his earphones and turning on some bloody American punk. Not adding to Arthur's plight to stay awake was the folders of paper work done in the tiny, scrawling hand of one of Mycroft's lackeys. It was nearly bleeding impossible to read in the dim light and without his reading glasses.

From what Arthur could make out, three English officials had been found in the Thames, (for which he was not surprised; the Thames was the most logical place in all of London to hide a body) bound and gagged with the Union Jack carved into the skin above their heart. It gave him chills, thinking about it; London was the heart of the nation, literally, and this could mean someone knew. They knew a secret that had survived millennia—the Dark Ages, plague, anarchy and even the French and it would all be unraveled with three decomposing bodies bound and dumped into a river.

Bloody fuck, it sounded like something out of a bad American action movie.

Giving up on reading the folders, Arthur closed them with a snap and settled himself on the seat. He was too old for this...these scandals, these security breaches. All he wanted to do was go home to his cat and his BBC.

He must've dozed, because the sounds of his car door being opened by Mycroft's driver startled him from his resting position. Getting out of the car, ignoring the help of Mycroft's lackey, he took in the sight around him.

221B was a little hole in the wall next to a cafe, a cafe that was probably smaller than the cottage Scotland raised him in. 221B had a lacquered door, a prestigious looking knocker, and an inlaid doorbell on the side. It looked, just by the door, cozy and well cared for. "Come along then," Mycroft said from behind Arthur, side-stepping him and walking up the steps to snappily ring the doorbell.

Several seconds ticked by before the drawling cry of, "Go away!" echoed from somewhere inside. Mycroft sighed, his perfect posture dipping just slightly, Arthur noticed. The nation stood up a bit straighter—damn his average height!

The lacquered door opened to reveal not a man from which the voice had come from but a petite older woman with wispy graying hair, a turtleneck jumper, and a knock off boutique-quality scarf the frog was always condemning people for wearing. She looked like someone's mother, a grandmother. Her eyes though, Arthur got a bit stuck on—wit sharp.

"Ah, Mycroft, good to see you, dear, and I see you've brought a...client? For Sherlock?"

Mycroft had that little smirk on his face, the one Arthur always wanted to slap off. "Yes, in a way. This is Mr. Arthur Kirkland. Arthur, Mrs. Hudson; my brother's...landlady."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, stepping to the side and letting them in. The inside was as well kept up as Arthur had imagined. "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairwell, "Mycroft's here, he brought you a client!"

Quickly turning back to Mycroft and Arthur, Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Oh, you've definitely come to the right place, dear, if you've got a mystery for Sherlock. He'll fix it right up, you'll see. Would you like a cuppa?"

Arthur didn't have time to respond (and yes, a cuppa sounded brilliant right now) for a stocky, muscular blond man in a shapeless oatmeal colored jumper had come down the steps, a peeved expression on his face. "Mycroft." He said flatly, "and..."

"Arthur Kirkland." Arthur said.

John Hamish Watson, the facts came right up in Arthur's head: 5'6", 167cm or so. Ex army. Doctor. Afghanistan. Discharged—shot in the shoulder. One sister, Harriet Watson, younger. Blue eyes. Blond hair. Extremely loyal extremely quickly. In love with none other than the famous, on infamous depending on who you asked, Sherlock Holmes, though quite in denial about said sexuality.

Arthur had to blink to keep his eyes from crossing. He hated it when that sort of thing happened; the facts got all muddled and he felt a bit weird when he knew more about his citizens than they knew about themselves. "John Watson," John said, extending his hand. Calloused—all the right ways for carrying a gun.

"Please to meet you, Doctor." Arthur said.

A pause, Mycroft and John sharing a look. A look about Arthur that made the nation's skin crawl. "Yes, well," John said after a moment, "Sherlock's upstairs. He'll be ready to see you I suppose. Just...well...Sherlock isn't the most sociable person, so don't get too offended by anything he says or does."

"I'm sure I've met worse, Doctor. Please, lead the way." He had taken a few steps up the staircase when he thought better, "Mrs. Hudson, if the offer still stands, I'd love a cuppa."

"Of course, dear, but just this once, I'm not the housekeeper!"

.

.

.

The flat Watson and the younger Holmes shared took Arthur back to the days when Alfred would make extreme hours, the sleep cycle of a Harvard Law student, trying to beat "the commie" to the moon, pouring over diagrams and algorithms and other numbers that made Arthur's head hurt. When Alfred wasn't eating or sleeping or playing video games, he really was quite the closet genius.

Things looked to be hastily straightened up, Arthur's eyes immediately being drawn to a spray painted smiley face on the wall surrounded by bullet holes. Papers had been pulled into hasty piles, a chair set in the middle of the room, most likely for the client, Arthur, to sit in. Holmes, the younger one anyways, was sitting on the couch against the far wall, hair ruffled and hands steepled in a thinking position.

Sherlock Holmes. Six feet even, 185cm. High functioning sociopath. Cambridge. Reformed druggie, the hard stuff too, Arthur was impressed. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Calculating. IQ off the charts. Former smoker. Much more than met the eye. Impossible man, impossible mind. Cheekbones you could cut yourself on. Also quite in love with his doctor, less in denial about his or John's sexuality.

"So...Mr. Kirkland. Please. Take a seat."

Arthur dared not straighten his Deathly Hallows t-shirt, because that would be letting Sherlock know that he knew what was going on. Arthur was being _deduced_. He let himself relax into the chair, it was rather comfortable anyways, and let himself feel the room instead of see it, a trick he learned back in his glory days.

Mycroft and John stood in the doorway, simply watching. That's about all they could do at this point, Arthur realized. The former empire propped one Doc Marten on the opposite knee, waiting for the detective in front of him to start speaking.

The answer came as a bit of a shock to everyone.

"How?"

"Excuse me?" Arthur asked, more curious than insulted.

"Sherlock..." John said from behind.

"The Deathly Hallows t-shirt is well worn. A Harry Potter fan—"

"Like most of Britain." Arthur mumbled.

"—wearing tight jeans and Doc Martens. Earrings. Smells of stale smoke and incense. Punk. Hair is a bit ruffled from the wind. Combining that I'd say you were in one of the record stores of The Lanes in Brighton. You greeted John as 'Doctor', though he gave you no indication of his title. Then there's your posture, that of a long time soldier, punks tend to slump and draw into themselves, there's several scars on your neck and arms, almost visible but long since faded, definitely enough to get you discharged but yet there's more." He suddenly slammed his fist down on the wall, and Arthur could tell John and Mycroft flinched. Arthur remained motionless.

"Not a flinch." A pause, Sherlock regaining his thoughtful position, "The temperament of a father. This room reminded you of something, you looked at it fondly, like one does their child. Married, for quite some time as the indent on your finger indicates, the ring, if I may?"

Arthur removed the ring and tossed it to him. Sherlock removed a small magnifying glass from his trouser pocket and held it up to simple gold band. "Over one hundred years old, taken on and off for a good seventy. I'd first say that this was some sort of family heirloom but it's worn into the shape of only your finger. You look 25 at most."

"23." Arthur said, holding his hand out for the ring.

"You are expecting me to obey."

"Power complex, or so I've been told." Prussia, France, America, Spain, the Italy's...constantly.

"How does a twenty-three-year-old punk with some military experience, a power complex, father-like attributes and a one hundred year old wedding ring come into contact with the man who practically runs the British government?"

"It's a bit hard not to, when it's part of the job."

"The job?" He looked intrigued, masked on his face but eyes alive with unfeigned curiosity.

"Brother," Mycroft said tightly from behind, "I'd like you to meet the anthropomorphic personification of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He's here about the murders."

"Of course he's here about the murders."

"Wait," John said, bringing everything to a halt. "There have been plenty of murders and serial killings before, why is he here now, for this one? Why would a personification of a bloody country be here, at some little flat in London, with Mycroft Holmes of all the bloody people."

"Yes, please. Mycroft, explain to me, and Doctor Watson here, why I am here. Why you pulled me off the street in East Sussex of all places. Christ." Arthur said, craning his neck from his seated position to looked Mycroft in the eye. He looked to barely be containing his cool.

"He kidnaps you too?" John asked, then his eyes widened and he shook his head, "No, no don't answer that. How bloody old are you, if you're the personification of the United Kingdoms of—oh, shit, you know what I mean?"

"Please, England is fine. And...several thousand years at least. It's hard to keep track these days." Arthur relaxed again in his chair, John coming around to be able to look the nation in the eye. Mycroft followed. Sherlock, obviously not being please about not being the center of attention (superiority complex; America in two words) said, "Really, John, _use your head_. Something's wrong, his secret is endangered and he's about as happy being here and I am with Mycroft. It's the Union Jack above the heart isn't it?"

Arthur stood, the two standing in the room taking a step back. He was only 5'9", but he liked to think he took up a few more inches in physical presence. "Not to mention who the victims were. Now, before we get into all the gory details I'm sure both Holmses are looking forward to, John, I do believe your landlady said something about a cup of tea?"

**Meh, lots of dialogue. if you like that sort of thing. Updated whenever I feel like it. Very OOC, sorry.**


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